by Syrie James
“Jane!” I heard my mother cry. “Why, I believe the poor girl has fainted. Mr. Austen! Do come help! Where are the smelling-salts?”
I had been born at Steventon, and had passed all the happy days of my life there. I could no more imagine leaving that beloved place than I could sprout wings and fly. I loved the trellised front porch of the parsonage house, the perfectly balanced arrangement of sash windows in its flat front façade, and the unadorned, white-washed walls and open-beam ceilings within. I had grown to cherish every elm, chestnut and fir which towered above its roof, and every plant and shrub in the back garden, where I strolled almost daily along the turf walk, bordered by strawberry beds.
The rectory had been considerably enlarged and improved over the years to meet the needs of my father and mother’s growing family, which included my sister Cassandra, myself and six sons, as well as a parade of young boys who came for long months at a time to be schooled by my father. The seven bed-rooms up stairs and three attic rooms had always been full during the days of my childhood, and the halls had resounded incessantly with the sounds of boyish laughter and the stomping of boots.
To be so suddenly uprooted, and parted for ever from my home—to never more stroll the lanes of the neighbourhood, where each thatched cottage nestled amongst the trees was familiar, and each face was known; to never again visit a dear friend, enjoy a dinner-party or attend a ball at one of the imposing brick manor houses; to never more walk up the hill to Cheesedown Farm, beyond the village, with its cows and pigs, and fields of wheat and barley; to never again walk to church of a Sunday, through woodlands of sycamores and elms, to hear my father’s weekly sermons. How was it to be borne?
At Steventon, I had enjoyed the perfect blend of loving family and pleasant society, which only a small country village can afford; in later years, as each of my brothers moved away, I had found refuge in my own little study up stairs, which had provided me with the blessed solitude I required to write.
How could I leave all that behind, I wondered in alarm—to remove to a tall, narrow rented house on a stone-paved street, in the white glare of dreaded Bath? My spirits sank at the very thought. I had enjoyed Bath as a visitor several times but had no desire to live there.
I understood the reasoning behind my parents’ choice; to them, after a lifetime of living and working in the country, they must have looked forward to the cheerfulness and society of city life; at their age, to take advantage of its healthful waters and excellent doctors could only be an added compensation. But to me, Bath was a city of vapour, noise, shadow and smoke, populated by the itinerant and the insincere; its celebrated concerts and balls could never substitute for close friends, a home, and the beauty of natural surroundings.
I suspected that there was another reason for our removal to Bath, although it remained unspoken, and it was this thought that was particularly mortifying. In addition to its status as a fashionable resort, Bath was known as a reputable place for securing a husband for unattached young ladies. My own mother’s parents, on retirement, had moved to Bath in precisely the same manner, taking their two unmarried daughters with them, and both my mother and her sister had, indeed, found husbands there. 3
Undoubtedly my parents thought they were doing Cassandra and me a service by bringing us to Bath, to parade us in the Assembly Rooms or at the Pump Room before a succession of single gentlemen; what worked for one generation, they must have hoped, might work for another. If that was their aim, however, they could only have been severely disappointed; for the next four years did not produce a suitable marriage prospect for either of us.
Of the painful circumstances of our removal from Steventon, and my anguished feelings connected with the sale—or should I say the giving away—of my father’s library of five hundred volumes, as well as my own much-loved books, the piano on which I had learnt, my large collection of music, and all the furniture and family pictures which had become so dear to me, I will not breathe a word. Of the years we spent in exile (of which I have previously written elsewhere) 4, I will say only that, in spite of my dislike of Bath itself, I did have several interesting adventures, made some memorable acquaintances, and very much enjoyed the daily company of my father, my mother and my sister. I found particular pleasure in our travels to the resort towns of the Devon and Dorset coast, which my father was keen on seeing at the time.
Which brings me to the second, even more heart-breaking event which irrevocably altered my life, as well as the fortunes of my mother and my sister: the day my beloved father died.
At four-and-seventy years of age, George Austen was still quite spry, with a shock of fine white hair, bright, intelligent eyes, a sweet, benevolent smile, and a grand sense of humour that inspired the admiration of all who knew him. Although he had suffered from a fever and forgetfulness on several occasions, he had always rallied and recovered, and his enjoyment of retirement and our itinerant years had been considerable.
On Saturday, the 19th of January, 1805, my father again took ill, suffering a renewal of his feverish complaint. The next morning, he was so much recovered, that he was up and walking about our Bath apartments at Green Park Buildings East with only the help of a stick; but by evening, the fever grew stronger, and he lay in bed with violent tremulousness and the greatest degree of feebleness. My mother, Cassandra and I took turns ministering to him throughout the night, greatly alarmed by his condition, and making every possible provision to assure his comfort.
I shall never forget the last words he spoke to me.
“Jane,” said he that night, as I sat at his bedside, gently wiping his feverish brow, “I am sorry. So very sorry.” His voice was but a hoarse whisper, his breathing short and very laboured.
“Do not be sorry, papa,” said I, believing, nay insisting that he would improve, and if not, hoping that he would not concern himself, in his final hours, with what might become of those he left behind; for he must have been aware, that when he did in fact depart this earth, his wife and daughters would be left in the most dire of financial circumstances. But thankfully, his mind was not occupied with such lowly matters; he did not even seem aware of the severity of his condition, or that he might, at any moment, be about to quit the objects so beloved, so fondly cherished, as his wife and children ever were.
“I am sorry, Jane,” said he again, “that I have not been of more help to you, as yet, with your books.”
“My books?” said I in great surprise. He referred to the three manuscripts I had written years earlier, manuscripts which were but early efforts, and, I knew, unworthy of publication. I had proof of that; my father had submitted one, First Impressions, to a publisher some years past, but it had been rapidly declined by return of post; my brother Henry had managed to sell another (Susan) for £10, but their promise of publication had never materialized. They all now resided (very much in need of alteration), along with a collection of other youthful works, in a sturdy box which traveled with me everywhere I went. “Please, papa, do not think of my books.”
“I cannot help but think of them,” said he with effort. “You have a gift, Jane. Do not forget it.”
I knew he meant well; but in truth, it was a father’s pride and love speaking. My brothers were all excellent writers; my work was not that special. “Nothing I have so far written, papa, seems to me of any worth, except perhaps as a diversion for my family. I have given it up. Hereafter, I have vowed to restrict my efforts with a pen solely to correspondence.”
My father closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “That would be very wrong. Your work, it should be published. When I am better, I will take it upon myself to see that it is done.”
By morning he was gone.
My father’s passing, in addition to being the cause of much sorrow to his entire family, had a most disastrous effect on the financial situation of the three women in his household. His living at Steventon, upon retirement, had gone to his successor, my oldest brother James; and his small annuity died with him.
/> “For forty years, he was the light of my life; my love, my anchor!” sobbed my mother, dabbing at her red, swollen eyes with a handkerchief, as we sat in the parlour of our rented rooms with my brothers James and Henry, after the funeral at Bath’s Walcot Church. “To be taken from me, and so suddenly! How am I to go on without him?”
“It is a very heavy blow; he was a most excellent father,” said James, as he set down his cup of tea. A solemn, serious, dependable curate of forty, James had rushed from his wife and children at Steventon to share in our hour of grief.
“But we must find comfort in the suddenness of the event,” said Henry. At three-and-thirty, he had always been the most witty, ambitious, charming and optimistic of my brothers, and I thought him the most handsome. “It means his suffering was brief.”
“Indeed,” said I, struggling to contain my tears. “I think he was quite insensible of his own state.”
“As such, he was spared all the pain of separation,” said Cassandra stoically. “For that I am grateful.”
“To have seen him languishing long, struggling for hours—it would have been dreadful!” I agreed.
“Oh! But what are we to do?” wailed my mother. “I am so ill, I can hardly speak. You know the church does nothing for widows and children of clergymen! To think, that in the midst of my despair, I must be weighed down by such matters, but we are homeless and nearly penniless, girls. With the ending of your father’s stipends, my income will fall to less than £200. Jane has nothing. Even with the interest on Cassandra’s legacy, there is not enough to support the three of us. How ever shall we survive?”
I felt my cheeks go crimson at this declaration. The fact that I had no money of any kind was a source of great mortification to me.
Cassandra had a legacy, from a tragic source; she had been engaged, at two-and-twenty, to the young Reverend Thomas Fowle; since Tom’s income was small, they had waited to marry. Two years later, Tom agreed to act as chaplain to a regiment bound for the West Indies, with the promise of a good living upon his return; but a year after setting sail, he caught yellow fever off St. Domingo and died. He left a legacy of £1000 to my grieving sister, the interest of which, invested in Government stocks, brought in £35 a year; a tiny sum, but it gave her some sense of consequence. I, on the other hand, was completely dependent on others for my support.
My mother was right; we were in dire circumstances, and should be subject to a life of the most miserable, abject poverty if we did not receive help.
“Do not despair, mother,” said James. “My brothers and I will not let you starve. I myself will be glad to pledge you £50 per annum from my own earnings.”
“Spoken like a man of feeling, and a true son,” said Henry, rising from his chair and clapping James on the back. “I will match that pledge.”
This, I thought, was a kind offer; Henry and his wife Eliza lived in London in good style, but he had a habit of changing occupations rather frequently, and had made it known that his income, at the time, was precarious.
“Oh! You are both goodness itself!” cried my mother.
We knew that Charles, my youngest brother and a Commander in the Royal Navy, who was away patrolling the Atlantic, could do nothing for us. But my brother Frank, a naval Captain on blockade, had written to Henry from Spithead with an offer of £100 a year, insisting that it be kept a secret. Henry, in his enthusiasm, could not hide the news from my mother, who was moved to tears.
“Never were there children as good as mine!” cried my mother rapturously. “Write and tell Frank that I feel the magnificence of his offer, but I will accept only half.”
We had yet to hear from my brother Edward, who was, by a fortunate twist of fate, far wealthier than all my other brothers combined. At age sixteen, my parents had agreed to let Edward be adopted by my father’s childless, distant cousin, Thomas Knight II; from him, Edward had inherited a fortune and three large and prosperous estates: Steventon Manor and Chawton in Hampshire, and Godmersham Park in Kent. At Chawton alone, Edward owned a manor house and a village of some thirty homes.
“Let us hope that Edward offers us the use of one of his houses,” said my mother. “Even a small cottage would do.”
To our disappointment, when we heard from Edward the next morning, he did not make such an offer; instead, he agreed to contribute a yearly stipend of £100 towards our support.
“What can he be thinking?” cried my mother, waving Edward’s newly arrived letter in dismay, as she joined me and Cassandra at the breakfast-table. Henry and James were up stairs, packing to depart. “I am his mother; you are his sisters! He is so very rich, and they live in such wealth and splendour at Godmersham. With so many houses at his disposal, surely he could spare the income from one tenant!”
“Still, his offer of £100 a year is very generous, mamma,” said I.
“Not generous enough by half, to my way of thinking.” My mother seized a large slice of toast from the toast rack and spread a great dab of butter upon it. “It is a drop in the bucket for Edward. I cannot believe this is his doing. It must be that wife of his! Elizabeth wants to keep all their income for herself and her children. She would not think of sparing a penny for her husband’s poor mother and sisters!”
“It is Edward’s property to do with as he wishes,” I reminded her, as I poured her a dish of cocoa. “Elizabeth can have no say over it.”
“Indeed she can!” cried my mother, biting into her toast and chewing furiously. “You do not know the sway that a wife may have over her husband, Jane, particularly when they are as close as those two. Edward is so yielding, so opposed to contention of any kind, if Elizabeth raised even the slightest objection to any thing, he would go out of his way to appease her.”
“Mamma, I am certain Elizabeth would never be so unfeeling,” said Cassandra. “She is a sweet and lovely woman.”
“A sweet and lovely woman with airs,” replied my mother with a sniff, “proud of her high upbringing and education, but without many natural abilities, and no regard for those of us who are blessed to possess them. Oh yes, a little talent goes a long way with the Goodnestone Bridgeses, but too much goes a long way too far.”
I could not agree with my mother’s assessment of the situation. Edward had married eighteen-year-old Elizabeth Bridges of Goodnestone Park in Kent in 1791, a union based on love, and blessed with many children. An elegant and pretty woman, Elizabeth had been educated at the most prestigious girls’ boarding school in London, where the curriculum included French, music, dancing and social etiquette, but very minimal academic content. Elizabeth was a woman of solid principles, a devoted wife and mother who adored her husband, and always treated us with great affection. I thought my mother’s sentiments had more to do with her own discomfort at the vast difference in material wealth between herself and Elizabeth than any thing Elizabeth had ever said or done.
“Even if Elizabeth has influenced our brother in this matter, mamma,” said I, “and we cannot be certain that she has, we must still be grateful for Edward’s offer.”
“You are right,” said my mother with a sigh, just as James and Henry entered the room, setting their valises by the door. I quickly acquainted them with the contents of Edward’s letter, which seemed to please them both immensely.
My mother rose and kissed my brothers on the cheek with a grateful look. “Thank you, boys. You have saved us from the poorhouse. If we observe strict economies, I am certain we shall be able to get by. But where we shall live, I am sure I do not know, for even with £450 pounds a year, we cannot afford our own house.”
“I believe you and the girls will do quite well and be very happy, mother,” said Henry.
“Yes, we have talked it over,” added James as he glanced out the window, scanning the traffic in the foggy streets below, no doubt hoping for a glimpse of his expected carriage. “You may pass your winters in comfortable rented lodgings here in Bath, and the remainder of the year, you may spend in the country, amongst your relations.”
Cassandra and I exchanged a dismayed glance; from the discomfited expression on my mother’s countenance, I knew they both felt the humiliation of our circumstances as keenly as did I. To be parceled out amongst our relations! Without a permanent home, we would be wholly dependent on my brothers’ kindness, obliged to accept whatever living arrangements they chose to make for us—and dependent on them for transportation to and fro as well.
We would never again, I feared, be able to call our lives our own.
Chapter Two
At first we divided our time, as James suggested, between temporary lodgings in Bath and extended visits to friends and relations, including stays with James and his wife and children at Steventon, and with Edward and Elizabeth and their brood at Godmersham Park.
I always enjoyed my visits to Godmersham; one could not help but feel pampered there. Edward lived in elegance, ease, and luxury, as befitted his income and the upbringing of his wife. The large, handsome, red-brick mansion was situated in splendid isolation, set in a landscaped park with wooded downland rising behind it. The house, which was maintained by dozens of servants, contained an excellent library and a beautifully appointed hall and drawing-room, decorated with superb plasterwork and carving, and marble chimneypieces; the rest of the rooms, though numerous, were rather simply furnished. It was pleasant to stroll through the manicured gardens and orchard, or to the Greek garden temple set on a knoll across the grounds. There was always activity and entertainment and fine dining; while at Godmersham, I ate ice, drank fine wine, and enjoyed being above vulgar economy.
I particularly enjoyed playing with the children, who numbered nine or ten at the time. We went boating on the river; I made paper ships with the boys, which we bombarded with chestnuts; I played school with the girls, as well as cards and spillikins and charades, and we made up riddles. On several occasions, I sequestered myself in one of the up-stairs bed-rooms and read aloud from one of my old manuscripts for the amusement of their eldest daughters, Fanny and Lizzie.